


Inside Out

by sheskindahoran



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aliases, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bottom Peter Parker, Brothels, Cock Tease, High School, Hurt Peter Parker, Large Cock, M/M, Prostitution, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Teen Peter Parker, Top Tony Stark, Virgin Peter Parker, tony doesn't rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheskindahoran/pseuds/sheskindahoran
Summary: Sometimes, you've got to do what you've got to do, and then you've got to run like hell after it's done.He began with a happy heart, but the clients aren't always so nice. They don't care about the road he's taken to get under their sheets. They don't care about May.Maybe Mr. Stark will. Or maybe he's like the rest of his clients.





	1. where he begins

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! also, can i say - fuck you tom holland let me see your goddamn haircut. thank you, that is all.

"Hi, May," he says, closing the apartment door behind him. She nods drowsily in acknowledgment. "How was work?"

"Alright," she mumbles, her eyes closed. "School?"

"Bearable," he laughs. "Ned might come over later, just so you know. We might go out for a little." She doesn't respond, but Peter doesn't think anything of it. May's medicine makes her extremely tired. 

Just before he closes the door to his room, she calls down the hallway that she's leaving for her walk in a few minutes and he's welcome to join her, but he turns it down out of academic exhaustion. She says she'll be back in two hours.

Peter opens up his laptop to the same website he's been looking at for the last two weeks. This time, though, it's just to confirm the address. Three days ago he called and made an appointment for an interview - the one that's in twenty minutes. He writes it down on a sticky note to carry with him.

He takes a deep breath before undressing. _Not bad_ , he thinks, twisting and turning in the full-length mirror. He'd avoided any and all sorts of food for the last 36 hours in favor of appearances. Last night had been one hell of a patrol, too, which helped. 

After a minute or so of poking and prodding at his body, Peter moves to the closet and pulls out black jeans and a short-sleeved button-up. In an effort to look older, he switches out his boxers for black briefs and, after dressing, musses up his hair in the mirror. He gets out his black Converse and tugs them on before swiping the jacket with his wallet and some other forms in it off his bed. Peter grabs his phone, the sticky note, and his keys before leaving. 

The place is located somewhere between the two closest subway stops, so he opts to just walk the whole way there. Peter's hands are sweaty and clammy, the way they get when he's nervous, so all that he thinks about on the way over is how to keep himself from being visibly uncomfortable. It's not much help. 

In the daylight, it looks just like an old, darkly-painted house that happens to be tucked away from everyday city life. He knows better. The suggestive photos and illustration displayed in the windows sort of give it away, too. 

Peter takes a deep breath for confidence and walks inside. The receptionist somehow immediately knows what he's there for and points him down the hallway behind her. It's a relief to not have to speak to her, but it's almost worse that she knows. He passes by an enormous room filled with couches and a bar and much more on the way to an office. Peter stops in front of a closed door labeled "Reed Richards." He knocks twice before walking in. It's one minute before his scheduled time.

Mr. Richards looks up from his paperwork as his door swings open. Peter smiles and wipes off his hands on his pants before introducing himself. "Peter, yes!" Mr. Richards says, standing up to shake his hand. He looks briefly at his watch. "You're prompt, that's great. Please, have a seat." He motions to the couch on the other side of his desk. Peter thanks him and takes a seat.

"So," Mr. Richards begins, "I got all of the files you e-mailed me. They look good - you're in great health. Did you fill out the questionnaire I sent?"

Peter nods in response, pulling it out of his jacket before sliding it over the desk. "Yes, I did. And here's my driver's license, too." He hands it over and sits back. 

"Great. I'll put this on file." Mr. Richards shuffles a few things around on his desk, trying to make some more room before he leans back in his chair. "So, let's get down to business. This should be fairly casual, alright? I need you to be comfortable so I can get a feel for your nature. Don't stress about it. Sound good?" Peter nods, letting his muscles relax. He forces his senses to cool.

"You're young, you know," Mr. Richards says. "We don't typically hire those who are barely legal, let alone kids in school. I know a little about your situation, but tell me: why are you here?"

"I-uh live with just my aunt here in Queens. She's the only one who works out of the two of us, which was okay because she wants me to focus on school. But now. . .she has stage four kidney disease and congestive heart failure and there's just no way to pay the house bills on top of the hospital bills when she can't even live the way she used to and I-I can't not help. The pressure on her to do everything like before isn't helping either. This just seemed like the quickest way to get back on top. 

"I know that this relationship here is based a contract and I will continue to work for you until that runs out or it's renewed. Just let me know what I have to do. I'm new to this, obviously." Peter sinks back.

"You're going to have to ask the others for help and advice - I can't really give that to you," Mr. Richards says. "But yes, you _will_ work until your contract is released. That is unquestionable. Next: when are you available?"

"Most afternoons/nights and weekends. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are best because my aunt will be at the dialysis center. Fridays are definitely good as well. I just can't be booked the absolute _entire_ night."

"How do you handle stress?"

Peter thinks for a moment about his nights in his superhero suit. "Well, I'd say. I'm pretty good at stepping away from the situation and figuring out how to handle it. I use humor, I guess."

"What about embarrassing situations?"

He laughs for half a breath. "Um, well, I try my best to focus on distractors and not whatever is embarrassing. I try and play it off."

"Can you give me an example?"

Peter manages to not let his face flush red as he recounts a story of being called "Penis Parker" by dozens of his peers at a party once. "Not that people pick on me now," he says once he's finished. "I'm well-liked now, I suppose."

"Do you really think you're ready to be an escort?" Mr. Richards asks. "It's a huge commitment, not to mention illegal. If your friends know about this side of your life, will you be okay with that?"

Peter looks at his hands for a moment. "Sometimes you've got to do what you got to do. This is bigger than me." He's missed Mr. Richards reaction by the time he looks up.

"Alright, can you undress for me? I just need to check for abnormalities, conditions, you know - the like. You don't need to make it a show or anything."

Peter nods quickly and stands, unlacing his shoes and toeing out of them before unzipping his pants. He pulls them down and over his ankles as his jacket is shrugged off. Lastly, he tugs his shirt over his head and puts it down on the pile by his feet. Mr. Richards stands, not saying anything about his underwear or socks for the moment.

"Step forward. Arms out, please." Peter does as he's asked without a word and Mr. Richards moves around him, periodically thumbing at his abdomen and biceps and facial features. Peter feels almost like a piece of meat, but this feels nicer. He is being treated more delicately, as if he's a lamb. 

"You have soft skin," Mr. Richards comments. "Great hands, too, and a nice little ass." The back of his hand pushes against the back of his briefs. 

"Thank you, Mr. Richards," Peter says uncertainly because he's not sure how to respond to that. No one has said that to him before.

"Please, call me Reed." Peter nods to acknowledge him. After another minute, Reed backs away. "Great, now, can you remove the rest of your clothing?"

"Yes, sir," he says. Peter's never been naked it front of anyone before. A month ago, this would have been the farthest thing from what he'd imagined. Now it's a reality. 

He leans down and tugs off his socks slowly. It's sort of an attempt to stall the inevitable. Besides, he needs to get comfortable with this. 

Peter hooks his thumbs into the waist of his briefs, taking his time going all the way around his waist to bring them down until the front section is tugging at him.

"Not a show, Peter."

"Right, right," he mumbles. He yanks them all the way down and steps out of them quickly, looking anywhere but at Reed.

"You okay?" Reed says, smiling and poking his head into Peter's field of vision.

"Of course," he replies, unmoving. Reed sort of laughs.

"You're bare and circumcised - that's great. And a fair length when soft." As he looks at Peter's feet, he asks him to get hard.

Peter takes a calming breath before gently wrapping a spit-on hand around his flaccid cock, slowly flicking his wrist back and forth. Reed leans back on the desk, watching. This is such a new and tense setting for Peter that it doesn't take long for him to get a full hard-on. It takes a lot of self-control for him to pull his hand away and wait for Reed to speak.

"That's even better," Reed says. "I got to say - I have yet to see an eighteen-year-old with a better body than yours."

Peter laughs inwardly. "I sort of work out a lot."

"I'll say. Now, lastly: are you a virgin, Peter?"

He takes a moment to think about his response. If he tells the truth, then he may be declined the job because of inexperience. But if he lies, well, there are a multitude of consequences that could ensue, like having to take on high-demand clients very early on. . . .

"Yes, I am," Peter admits. 

"In both ways?"

"Wha-"

"Have you fucked anyone?"

Peter is taken a little aback by the frank question. "Uh, no."

"Have you been fucked?"

"No-no, definitely not."

"Well, kid," Reed says, "I hope you're ready to be. God, we haven't had a virgin in so long, it feels like." He almost seems giddy. It's slightly disconcerting. "But no one is going to want to be fucked by someone so inexperienced, so you're going to have to take it for a while.

"You like boys, yeah? You can like both, too."

"Uh, yes, I like boys. I can go for either, I guess, but I prefer guys." Peter shifts uncomfortably, his erection still standing tall.

"Well, Peter - actually, what would you like to go by? I'll know your real name, of course, but for your clients and the others I suggest deciding on an alias. Likely something that seems believable. Don't pick something like'Ketchup.' That's stupid. And if you'd like to pick both the first and the last name, that's fine. Otherwise, I can pick the last name." Reed turns away towards his desk, looking for something as Peter thinks on it. 

"Anyways," Reed continues, "we already got the STD test back in from the sample you sent in the other day. You're clean, obviously. Always good to make sure though. That's a required monthly ordeal, by the way, for your safety and ours."

"Is Eric okay, for a name?" Peter suggests. 

"That sounds good. Do you want me to pick your last name? We've got a whole list here."

"Okay," Peter replies. "Nothing too bad, though."

"I got it. Well, Peter, we'd love to take on a cute little thing like you. There are a couple of places to sign on this contract, but you've got good money here if you want it. It's only a six-month contract."

Peter swallows hard. "Okay, yeah. Yeah, let's do it. I'm ready."

 _It's for Aunt May_ , he thinks. _C'mon, it's bigger than you, okay? Bigger than you._

"Fantastic," Reed replies. "Here's a pen. Just sign here, here, here, here, and here, and initial here and here. And here. And then you're good!"

Peter shakily puts down the pen. This doesn't seem real. It feels like he just signed his life away. He knows that he just signed his virginity - something he'd always valued - away to be sold. Aunt May would punt him into the next decade if she knew what he just did. She wouldn't understand that this was _for_ her. The more she could rest, the more they could visit the hospital, the longer she would live. He needed her to live.

"Here's your work phone," Reed says, handing his driver's license back along with an old iPhone. "It is solely for those here and your clients. This is how we contact you. It needs to be on you at all times, but we will respect events like school. Just have it on vibrate, alright?"

"Okay," he nods nervously, beginning to dress himself again. As he ties his shoes, he asks, "When do I start?"

"Likely tonight or tomorrow. Someone will let you know within the next two hours if someone wants you today. Know that not every client wants a fuck either, okay? There's more to these relationships than that. Respect their wishes.

"Okay, _Eric_ , see you later." Peter breathes out a laugh before leaving the office. God, what a whirlwind. 

He still has half of a hard-on as he leaves the building. The receptionist smiles to him on the way out, but he's too out of it to notice. 

_Jesus, what am I getting in to?_


	2. the virgin peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first night. it's rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loovee your comments! apologies for the delay

The phone is silent until Saturday morning, so Peter thinks it's broken.

He went out with Ned last night, just to see a movie. Ned was nice enough to buy his ticket as long as Peter would sneak in some snacks.

It was a nice movie and all, but it wasn't distracting enough. He couldn't ever really get into it. The entire way home he wanted to say something to Ned, but every time he began to he felt more like throwing up instead.

He wakes up to a notification on his phone and sunlight the next day. It's an unfamiliar tone, so he knows it's not his _real_ phone. It's that. . .work one.

_Hey, it's Danny_ , the message reads. _I'm your point guy. You're up for two tonight._

_7 pm - Mr. Murdock_   
**_ click for address _ **   
_black tie dress_

_10:30 pm - Mr. Thompson_   
**_ click for address _ **   
_no special requests_

_These are not prepaid sessions. You know the hourly rates, so don't forget to get paid. Have fun!_

This sounds like a joke. Twice in one night? He's never been with anyone once, let alone with a guy and probably as a bottom.

_He said it's not always sex_ , Peter hopes. The first one does want him to be in black tie dress. That's something, yeah? But the second one. . . .

The lack of special requests is daunting. He feels as if he's going in blind.

Peter checks the time. It's only eleven, so he has some time for his Spider-Man duties as well as some homework before he needs to be somewhere. May is likely talking a walk around before she goes to the dialysis center, so he'll be unbothered for the day.

Within two hours, he's completed the majority of his schoolwork for the weekend. That's record timing. Either way, he's happy to be done.

In just a few moments, he swings out of his open window - colored tights and all.

* * *

It's as mild-mannered as any Saturday afternoon could be. Peter ends up turning in early in favor of grabbing something to eat and tinkering with his suit.

With a sandwich in one hand, he fiddles with the screws for the eye patches. They've stopped closing in to focus on a subject, which is more than vital for long-distance eye range. His powers have strained his eyes over the years and have left Peter unacceptably dependent on technology for visual aids.

When six o'clock rolls around, Peter begins to sort through his closet. Except for the dances at school (and the one time he was invited to a Stark gala) he's never really needed a suit for a black tie event. If he's lucky, the one suit he does have will fit. It was Uncle Ben's, so it'd always been a little big. He's grown a lot since the last time he wore it, though.

It takes a few minutes to get everything on, but surprisingly, it fits almost perfectly. The shoulders are a little snug (not to mention the rear), but it's bearable. He can get through one night.

"Okay," he says, turning in the mirror, "okay, I can do this. I can do this, I can definitely do this. Right? Can I do this?

"God. I can't do this. This is a joke." He pulls roughly on his hair. " _God!_ " Peter says, kicking his loafer-covered foot against the bed frame. "Who do you think you are, Peter? You're just. . .you're just a kid."

He falls back onto the bed. "I'm just a kid," Peter says, his voicing breaking as he runs his hands down his face. "I'm not ready for this. I can't - I can't do this. God, I'm such a fuck. May's gonna die. She's gonna die and I, I'll be on the street." A tear slips out of his eye, leaving a salty path in its wake. Peter's stomach churns.

"I'm gonna be late," he mutters to himself, sitting up and walking to the bathroom to wash his face. Peter styles his hair minimally with only a touch of gel, letting his hands distract him from any invasive thoughts.

He leaves the apartment with a hint of cologne on his neck and his wallet and phone in his pocket. Admittedly, he feels as if this is the best he's looked in a while. Peter fills the tuxedo out nicely now and his face isn't as baby-like as it used to be. This past homecoming dance was the last time he dressed up, too, and it feels nice to wear quality clothes. At least he can enjoy that.

Peter has nothing else to do on the subway rides into Manhattan, so he just constantly assures himself that he's heading to the right place and that he is safe. Completely, totally safe. Definitely.

With some help from online maps, he arrives at a hotel - a _really_ big hotel. It's one of the fanciest-looking buildings he's ever seen. Dozens of cars are pulling up to the valet service, so he just watches from across the street.

There are no specifics on where to go. He feels like they forgot that he hasn't really done this before (though he did call Reed back the day of his interview with a couple of questions).

He calls Danny.

"Hey, Danny," he says once the phone call goes through, "it's Pe - Eric. Eric, sorry."

"Hey, man, what's up? You okay?" It feels weird that that's the first thing he says.

"No, I'm good, it's just - where am I supposed to go?" Peter asks. "I-I know you gave me that address, but there's like a party/ball thing going on here with a million people and I . . . yeah."

Danny mutters a curse under his breath. "Crap, that's my bad. Where are you right now?"

"Standing across the street."

"Alright, stay there. Someone will be there in a minute. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again."

"Danny, it's okay. Don't worry about it," Peter says. "Alright, gotta go. Bye." He ends the call.

Not even a full minute later, a sleek black sedan pulls up next to him. The driver lightly bops on the horn and Peter hurries to the back seat.

"Hey, Eric," the driver says once they pull away from the curb. He's talking through the reflection in his mirror. "I'm Sebastian - Mr. Murdock's driver. Just call me Seabass."

"Hey," Peter responds, putting his hands on the headrest of the seat in front of him. He's forcing his nerves down his throat. "How do you already know me?"

"Oh, well, we'll probably see each other a lot and I like to know my passengers." He smiles into the mirror.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," Peter says, sinking into his seat. "Where are we going?"

"Reed's boys screwed up. They gave you the event address, not the one to actually meet at. Need to go pick up your date."

Peter nods to himself. This doesn't feel so bad.

They pull up to the curb. "I'll be back in a minute," Seabass says, hopping out of the car. Peter watches him walk inside a building, disappearing for a few minutes. When he walks out, he's following a man wearing dark sunglasses and holding a white cane. Seabass opens the car door for him and the man slides in.

Peter doesn't really know how to start. So he doesn't.

"You must be Eric," Mr. Murdock says, turning to him. He reaches towards Peter's face and softly strokes his thumb against his cheek.

"I am," he responds, unbothered by the touching. It's soothing, if nothing else. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Murdock."

He smiles. "Just call me Matt tonight."

Peter quietly scoots closer on the bench so that Matt doesn't have to reach as far. "You can move your hand, if you'd like," he says softly.

He doesn't even notice that they're moving through the city again. By now, Peter has closed his eyes so that Matt can map out his face with his hands.

"If I didn't already know you were an adult, you could've told me you were fifteen and I would've been none the wiser," Matt says once he's removed his hand. "But your jaw is too defined for that, so. I'm guessing your voice throws people off."

Peter breathes out a laugh. "I've been told I have a bit of a baby face, yeah. My voice doesn't really help." Matt smiles out the window.

"Oh, we're here," Matt says suddenly. "A lot of people coming in still. Hm."

To Peter's surprise, they are slowly pulling into the valet area. He wants to ask how Matt knew, but decides it's not actually important and waits for the car to stop.

The doors open all around the car and Peter jumps right out. He hears Seabass telling the valet that he's only dropping the two off, but he's more concerned on helping Matt out of the car. When he gets to the other side of the vehicle, though, Matt is waiting for him.

"You look fantastic," Peter tells him, taking his arm. He read online that if he didn't have anything to say, he should compliment his client. Matt looks pleased.

"As do you, lover boy."

Peter wants to laugh a little, though it's unnerving how perfectly that name fits now. He knows it's supposed to be endearing, but, God, this is all so uncomfortably new. None of his friends have ever remotely experienced an event like this.

Matt and his date begin to walk through the crowd gathered inside the great halls within the hotel, slowly making their way around. There is an overwhelming amount of well-dressed, New York elites in here.

For nearly the entire night, Peter keeps to himself. He pays attention to the conversations between Mr. Murdock and his colleagues so as to not seem bored or confused, but no one is asking him about anything. He is given a simple once-over by the other guests (though an unnumbered amount _do_ linger their eyes) before rendering unimportant. This is okay. He's being paid to look good and young, not to have opinions. Besides, what would he say? If the questions concerned his private life, he would surely not admit that he was still in school, and surely not that he had never met Mr. Murdock before tonight. No, he would assure everyone that he'd been Matt's boy toy/lover for some time now.

And for more public matters? Well, he knew about issues like that only because of his work as Spider-Man. He almost always took the side that benefitted the most amount of people - utilitarianism - though he wasn't sure if those same principles always rendered true in this room. The last thing Peter wanted to do was embarrass Matt.

The night flows smoothly, though. Matt asks him about his hunger and thirst every so often, which is nice even if that's the only thing they discuss all night.

Peter feels more than relieved that his first client had kept his pants on. _It_ is going to happen, he knows, but the more time he gets to prepare the better. The dozens of pinches and rubs and light tickles they gave each other all night did the trick and performed a perfect illusion of a honeymoon-stage relationship. Fools.

By ten o'clock he's home and laying atop his bed. May is always exhausted after dialysis, so she's asleep by the time he gets back. He's only removed his suit jacket.

There aren't any special requests for his next client, but he realizes that it will not be like his last meeting. Still, he decides to keep the nice clothes on - including the bow tie. It looks good and he wants to make sure everyone believes he is old enough for this. Besides, what else would he wear? A sweatshirt?

The address is close enough, so he walks. The place feels familiar as he starts through the neighborhood surrounding it. It weirds him out.

It's an enormous house. And it feels too much like he's been here before, which makes his nerves worse. Peter forces himself to be confident.

He knocks twice and very softly. It's two minutes until ten-thirty.

The door opens slowly to a man in a bathrobe. Peter is taken slightly aback. He knows that face.

"Mr. Thompson?" he asks, both alarmingly and confidently.

The man takes all of him in. "So you're my little plaything, huh? Eric, is it?"

Peter needs to sigh a deep breath of relief. Thank _God_ he doesn't hang around Flash enough for his dad to know who Peter is. But Peter knows him, that's for sure. At least it seems like no one is home.

"Yes, sir," Peter replies, swallowing the bile in his throat. He coughs into his elbow. "May I come in? You're quite a wonder to gaze upon, and I can't imagine standing this far away any longer." He can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. _He_ , Peter Parker, is _hitting_ on his classmate's dad. His throat burns.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Mr. Thompson pulls him in and kicks the door closed, resting his hands on his plaything's waist. Peter arms instinctively wrap around the other man's back to keep him close, and he hates that Mr. Thompson suddenly feels invited to creep down his own backside and rub his ass with his whole palm.

"So many clothes," Mr. Thompson says. "Did you get all dolled up for me? Are you trying to impress?"

"Only if it's working," Peter answers. _It's an act_ , he reminds himself. _You don't mean it. It's for May._

"Oh, it's working." Peter is suddenly very aware of the pressure on his hip and lower stomach. Fortunately, there are least three layers of clothing between them, even though it doesn't feel like it'll stay that way for much longer. "Mm. . .so soft. So delicate."

As much as Peter wants to resist Mr. Thompson's actions, as much as he wants to run away, he knows he won't be able to. He might as well get it over with.

He leans into the man's crotch and attempts to drop his coat on the floor, but Mr. Thompson's arms block the way.

"No, no, Eric, allow me," Mr. Thompson says, stepping away. His robe tie slips away as he pulls Peter towards the back of the house and past the photos of Flash and his family. By the time they reach the master bed and the older man is sitting on it, the robe only barely covers the places where the sun doesn't shine. He's never seen somebody like this and his skin begins to flush.

"You're so young," Mr. Thompson notes, rubbing his thumb over Peter's palm. "He told me you were young, but damn, you could be in my son's class." Peter gulps, hopefully unnoticeably. "That's so delightful."

Peter wants to cringe at that, but can only step closer and closer until his torso is only an inch from his client's face. His legs stand around the other's knees.

"Do you have fantasies, Mr. Thompson?" Peter begins, pretending it's not him saying these words. He begins to unbutton his dress shirt. "Your son's friends? Maybe your son himself? Somebody so young, so pretty, so _tight_?" He leans his neck over so that his head is past Mr. Thompson's and dry heaves. He's disgusted, but the other never notices.

"Mm. . ." Mr. Thompson says, his eyes closing softly. "My son is too old now, too talkative. He doesn't let me anymore. . .why do you think I was so excited at the, at the prospect of having you?" His cold fingertips reach past the divide of Peter's dress shirt and explore his smooth skin. Peter nipples harden in fear, but Mr. Thompson believes otherwise.

Peter sits on the man's lap, the robe falling away. Mr. Thompson's cock stands at attention.

The room grows warm with heated breathing. Peter reaches down to appease his client, but his hands are guided to shoulders instead.

"No. . .let me take care of you, sweetheart." The button to Peter's pants is swiftly undone, and they both realize that he needs to stand in order to continue. He moves up and backwards as Mr. Thompson stands as well. He turns and lays the younger boy on the bed, dividing Peter's shirt and gently tugging his pants and shoes off.

Without a word, Mr. Thompson leans down and kisses the raised part of Peter's briefs. His mouth opens against his crotch with a warm, wet heat that Peter finds embarrassingly enjoyable. The robe slips off and Peter makes the choice to focus on his face.

As the man moves closer to his face, he closes his eyes and tries to remember what he's here for and why he needs to follow through with all of this. His home is at stake, and that's so much more important than this.

Dry lips touch. Peter hones all of his senses in on it as he feels cool air replace his boxers and cloth pool at his ankles. Something wet presses on him down below and he shivers.

"So- _ungh!_ " Mr. Thompson grunts as he pushes in all the way. Peter yelps loudly, gripping the sheets with everything in him. He feels as if he might rip the bedspread, but _damn_ , who cares? He's being ripped apart himself.

"Fuck," Mr. Thompson says as he already starts to pull out, "I've missed this." He shoves himself back in quickly, holding onto Peter's shirt.

Peter is holding back shouts and cries and everything that could disappoint his client. He wants to be good. He forgets that it's _his_ first time - all he can focus on is getting a worthy review. Peter opts for the guttural grunts and moans that he makes up. This is not pleasing; it hurts.

It gets easier after a minute or so, but not enough. Fortunately, his cock is raised enough to show his body's physical interest, despite his mental pleas for termination.

Just as Mr. Thompson's grunts reach their deepest sounds, he pulls out and stands on his knees, directing his cumshots out over Peter. It drips from his face as he sits up.

They both pant roughly. Mr. Thompson grins at the sight of Peter, reaching over to thumb at his chin. "Such a good boy," he says. "How I've missed the sight."

Peter hates the feeling of something wet on his lips, but is more fearful to lick it away. All he wants is to go home. This isn't what he expected his first time to be like, and he just wants to be alone with himself. It doesn't feel like he'll be home for a bit, though.

"I know that was only your introduction to sex, so you can thank me for taking it easy on you," Mr. Thompson continues. Peter wants to cry. That was not easy. "But now, I want some real fun. Turn over."

Peter hears the sound of electricity buzz.


	3. what comes next

Peter's off Sunday. Thank God - he's having too much difficulty walking. He can't imagine trying to get to someone else's house again.

There's a thick wad of cash sitting atop his dresser that he likes looking at. Most of it he won't get to keep, but it's still nice to think so. He's got to move it before May sees.

Every movement kills him. It takes a good ten minutes to scoot off the bed, but Peter doesn't even realize. His mind is blaring.

As his toes reach the ground, he pushes on the mattress to stand up, but his legs aren't ready nor capable at the moment and he crumples to the floor with a stomach-churning groan. The thud was loud enough to alert May, so with everything in him, he scrambles to stand and shove the money in his sock drawer. The pain settles in afterwards.

He chooses to ignore it, dawning instead on the fact that he's still in black tie attire. The clothing is crumpled, yes, but there's still. . .release is still all over his shirt and body and he looks too nice for a Sunday morning.

He can hear May getting closer. She's walking from her bedroom on the other end of the apartment.

"Damn," he cries, throwing off the shirt and unbuckling his pants, "this accelerated healing is good for nothing." It's not true, he knows, but it feels justified. His ass shouldn't still hurt this much. The burns should have disappeared.

He gets a shirt on before she opens the door. Peter just turns away from the entryway, hoping to hide the stains on his briefs and the ugly marks on his legs.

"You alright?" she says. "I heard a crash."

"Yeah, I think it was outside," he replies, tensing. Peter pretends to look for some pants in his closet.

"Alright," she answers, unconvinced. "Want to come on my walk? It's nice out."

"No, thanks. I've got some homework to finish." She nods and closes the door behind her.

The shower water is barely room temperature. Hot water gets expensive.

Peter's careful to wash himself, going delicately over where his skin breaks.

_He's a police officer. That must've been where he got it._

His skin still feels like it's sizzling.

_Peter twists under him, trying to turn away from the taser. It zaps the skin next to his hip._

His tongue is caught in his throat. Everything feels like it's bubbling up and he can't even try to keep it down.

_He screams into the night. Mr. Thompson only smiles fondly, leaning over to kiss his raw lips._

Peter flattens his palms out against the shower tiles, trying desperately to grab at something. He feels like keeling over.

His phone chimes on the sink counter. Quickly, Peter finishes up and steps out, feeling only marginally better.

It's Happy. That's a new one.

_Tony left this machine for you,_ the message reads. An attached picture loads. _Do you want to come work on it now? Or should I just put it away until tomorrow?_

He's been waiting on this for weeks. Mr. Stark had been tinkering with the Iron Man suit, trying to improve the backup systems. He'd been reluctant to let Peter have a go at it ("it's different when it's me"), which kind of hurt his ego, but he understood. Peter didn't know much about the inside functions of the suit, and messing with the wrong thing could kill Mr. Stark.

But he was letting him now. He trusted him. Peter wanted to get his hands on it as soon as possible.

He doesn't want to go out, though. He doesn't want to run the risk of Mr. Stark or Happy seeing something up with him. Also, it's a long ride into Manhattan. Tomorrow, when everything is a little better, he'll go.

He dresses and sits down at his desk with a wince.

* * *

 

Peter sprints down the hallway as the late bell for his last class sounds.

Today has been significantly better, physically. He can walk and run with ease. His mind, however, has been all over the place.

Somebody booked him for tonight. Now, he's going to have to sneak out past May, going to have to skip most of patrol tonight, and going to have to do his homework in the early morning hours. He's got an English test tomorrow, too, and that class is kicking his ass. Peter just isn't _that_ fond of the written word.

He zones out for most of Spanish, but as soon as the bell rings, Peter's gone. He gets to the subway station and hops on a line to Manhattan, twiddling his thumbs until he gets off at the stop closest to the Tower. Peter pulls the access pass from his backpack and scans it at the front desk before stepping into the elevator and scanning it again in order to get to the secure lab levels.

Mr. Stark is sitting there at the table, oil smeared on his cheek and glasses at the end of his nose. He barely notices Peter come in.

"I thought Happy said you left it for _me_ to mess with?" Peter asks with a smile, letting the day fall away with his backpack as it drops to the floor.

Mr. Stark is only halfway startled, but the screwdriver in his hand still clatters to the table. "You're too light on your feet, kid. We need to get you a bell."

"Like a cow?"

"More like a cat."

"Well, you're buying it," Peter says, pulling out a stool and his notebook.

"I thought that was a given. You're losing your touch, Underoos."

They sit in silence for a moment, Mr. Stark's tools tinging softly and Peter's pencil scribbling across the page.

"How's May?" Mr. Stark asks, his eyes never leaving his working hands.

Peter lays the pencil down, watching the other work instead. "About the same," he says. "Which kind of sucks, seeing as how she can't really work and the rent is due next week. But we'll make do."

Mr. Stark sets the nail down and looks over at him. "Why didn't you say something, Peter? Don't worry about it, alright? I'll take care of it."

"No, you're not. We're not taking your money. That's _your_ money."

"So I can do what I want with it. And if that means paying your landlord, then so be it. Don't argue with me."

"No, Mr. Stark. That's not your job. We've already talked about this. I can take care of her. I'm supposed to take care of her."

"Yeah?" he says, crossing his arms. "And denying free money, when you have none of your own, is helping her out?"

"There's no such thing as a free lunch."

"Fine; we'll call it compensation for your help with the suit."

"This isn't really an internship then. And anyways, I do make money."

"Hm? How so?"

"It's not your business. I thought you wanted a 'professional relationship' anyhow."

Mr. Stark laughs. "We're so far past that, kid. Your business is my business."

Peter turns back to his notebook, crossing out a few lines of incorrect mathematics.

"So, where do you get your cash flow? I thought your nights were already filled."

"I make time." Peter keeps his head down. He is _not_ talking about this with Tony Stark, of all people.

"Doing?"

Peter huffs from deep in his lungs. "God, I'm babysitting. Is that what you wanted to hear? Because that's all it is. Just some kids that live below me. Their dad works nights."

Mr. Stark turns back to his machines, looking satisfied.

Jesus, he's so tired. He doesn't want to do anything tonight. He's too pissy, and too scared, and too angry that this is how his day is going.

"Well," Peter starts, closing his notebook, "since I don't think you're going to let me touch that, I think I'm going to check out early. I'm still waiting on the results from that RD scan, and I don't really have the energy to look at anything new right now. So I'll see you tomorrow."

He leaves with a huff. Mr. Stark doesn't say a word.

* * *

 

People have weird fetishes.

That night, he's asked to come looking as young as he can, which isn't difficult. He finds some of his old clothes in the attic and tugs them on (they're a bit tight) over his head and over his (race car) boxers, making sure that his hair is as curly as can be. He pulls on a baseball cap and high tops and then some sweatpants and a sweatshirt so strangers don't look at him weird. The issue isn't the difficulty, however - it's the fact that people want to have _sex_ with someone who has the appearance of being underage.

Peter leaves for Ms. Jones's apartment over in Ridgewood as soon as May closes her bedroom door for the night. He throws up the window and attaches himself to the brick wall before climbing down into the alley. With a backpack slung over his shoulder, he starts off at a jog out onto the street. It doesn't take long to arrive at the address.

In the alley between Ms. Jones's apartment building and a florist, Peter takes off his sweats and shoves them in his backpack. He tucks the bag away behind a dumpster.

He doesn't want to interact with anybody on the way up to the apartment, so he climbs up the side of her building and slides in through the window on her floor. The lights flicker overhead. This doesn't feel so good.

Before he can knock twice, he's yanked inside by a woman wearing next to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Bit of a filler, innit. But you know what's coming next.. :)


End file.
